


rare is this love, keep it covered

by Bookish_Moose



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adrenaline, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caught in the Rain, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Epistolary, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hightown Funk Exchange, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, In Vino Veritas, Meet-Cute, Metafiction, Minor Varric Tethras/Bianca Davri, Sharing a Bed, Sort of? - Freeform, Tropes, Wedding date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 11:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookish_Moose/pseuds/Bookish_Moose
Summary: She walks into the Hanged Man and the world stops.She walks into the Hanged Man and the worldchanges.





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [free_smarcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/free_smarcher/gifts).



> Written for Hightown Funk 2018
> 
> Tropey fics are my literal favorite thing, so I couldn't not choose a prompt where I got to include not just one but as many as possible! Original prompt asked for Hawke/Varric bumbling their way through every trope in the book and still not getting together for various reasons. I'm not sure I managed the ridiculous part of this, and it may be a comedy in the tradition, rather than hysterical sense, but gosh I had fun writing it. I hope you enjoy!

She walks into the Hanged Man and the world stops.

Varric’s written this moment a hundred times. It’s the moment, the one where everything changes. The hero, world-weary, wallowing in self-doubt and existential angst, frowns into his ale in a dingy bar until purpose strolls back into his life as a leggy brunette. Varric’s not a brooder by nature, but he’s weary as shit. Scribbling numbers on the back of a letter from his editor- _sales are down, Mr. Tethras...don’t you have any new material, something fresh, exciting...a romance, perhaps _-counting the ways they can’t afford this harebrained scheme of Bartrand’s without help, counting coppers for his sources, rather than the silvers he was tossing their way a year ago.__

____

He’s heard the whispers: _Hawke, Hawke, Hawke _. They weave a path through his informants’ notes, through the streets of Lowtown, from dock to dock to dock along the Waking Sea, but he can’t say he’s paid them much notice. It would be a better story if he had, this moment the answer to a series of questions that have become apparent, if not to him, at least to the reader: Who is she? What does she want? What will she mean to him?__

____

He hears the name now, too- _here to meet someone for Athenril, my name is Hawke _-not a whisper this time, because who whispers about themself? Not a whisper anymore. Reality.__

____

__

Varric turns to look.

She walks into the Hanged Man, twin swords crossed on her back, the world stops, and, absurdly, the first thing Varric thinks of is Bartrand. 

His brother will hate her, of course, this majestic human who is all swords and leathers and dark, glossy hair falling across her brow. Who is all promise and potential. Varric doesn’t have a good business sense, not really, not the way his brother does or his father did, but maybe he’s developing one because there’s a wave of something coming off of this smuggler’s lackey that tells him she’s the key to everything. 

_Is this what stone sense is like?_ he wonders _. _  
_____

____

____

“I’ve been looking at the numbers, Bartrand-”

“Leave the numbers to me, little brother.” The esteemed Head of House Tethras can scarcely find the motivation to look up from his ledger. 

Varric sighs, tamps down the frustration clawing up his throat. Breathes. Counts to ten in his head. One. Two. Three. _Leave the numbers to me, brother._ Four. Five. _Nug humping dirt-licker, get your head out of the clouds._ Six. _Just get the information, Varric, and get out of my face._ Seven. Eight. _Get my information-wine-Varric. Help your brother-mother-family_. Nine. _Information-wine-information-brother-mother-wine-family-help-_ “We need an investor.”

_____ _

_____ _

Bartrand slams his ledger shut. “A sodding investor is the last thing we need. We’ll get the money.”

Aquamarine eyes beneath a fringe of black silk. Twin daggers dancing in the firelight. “I found someone who can make up the rest of the money, Bartrand.” He doesn’t mention that she works for Athenril. Doesn’t mention she’s a human, either. “I’ve got a good feeling about her.”

“A feeling? By all means, brother, why didn’t you say so. A FEELING.” Bartrand scoffs. “Only thing we need less than your feelings is Dougal Gavorn. Stick to your spies and leave the coin to me.”  
___

It’s the work of a few days and more than a few coins, but Varric is both an excellent planner and spender. Word of the Deep Roads expedition has spread. Bartrand is livid, naturally, but really, it couldn’t be helped. If his brother’s frustration gives Varric a little something to smile at, well, that’s just a bonus. A couple of well-placed notices and conversations between the right people at the right times and Hawke is on her way to the Merchant’s Guild square. 

He knows what he’s doing might be considered creepy, under the right circumstances, but he needs this, needs Bartrand in a better mood and off his back, needs to get this expedition moving. Needs a change. Needs her. He is stagnating, wasting away from the inside out.

“Find another meal ticket.” 

Bartrand’s words ring out loud and clear through the marketplace. A hush falls over the crowd for a moment. Varric peers around a corner. He can see the flush rising from the collar of Hawke’s armor, could see it from a hundred feet away against her pale skin, feels the ghost of heat on his own neck- _such a layabout, Varric. When are you going to start pulling your own weight in this family? You can’t write stories forever _. Bartrand excels at shame. Fifty more gold, a few weeks in the Deep Roads, and maybe things will get better.__

____

____

The story has already begun, but Varric doesn’t realize that. The story he is writing starts here, and it needs to have a doozy of a beginning. He’s made sure it will.

It starts. 

From around the corner, Hawke cries out. Then there’s the patter of running feet, the zing of Bianca’s mechanism and a thud as the so-called thief slams into the wall. Varric quips at him, not really for anyone’s benefit but his own. He’s not willing to check whether Hawke is in sight or not yet, but he knows she can’t hear him. The punch he gives the lad isn’t strictly necessary, but Hawke rounds the corner just as her coin purse drops into Varric’s hand and it won’t do to be mistaken for a petty criminal. He’ll give the poor sod an extra silver or two for the bother. His heart is pounding, though he can’t quite figure why, as he turns and tosses her the purse. 

“How do you do,” he says, twirling a bolt between his fingers and feeling quite a bit more badass than he probably has a right to. “Varric Tethras, at your service.” 

 

____________________

According to Gamlen, it’s the rainiest autumn Kirkwall has seen in a decade. Down at the docks, the sailors are saying it’s the unseasonably warm temperatures on the Amaranthine Ocean to blame. The merchants put it up to the strangely cold winds blowing out of northern Ferelden. Hawke can’t say she knows much about weather patterns, or trusts the gossiping fishmongers much, and so ignores the wind whipping at the edges of her tunic when she and Varric set off for the Wounded Coast. Thus, she has no one but herself to blame when she sees the storm clouds on the horizon as she rummages through the pockets of a Grey Warden messenger they’ve found lying on the beach. 

“Do you know much about weather, Varric?” she asks in an off-handed sort of way. He sits distracted a few feet away bandaging a gash on his arm. “Storms and rain and the like?”

“Shouldn’t we be past small talk by now?” 

Hawke doesn’t bother getting to her feet, but crawls her way to a dead bandit bleeding into brackish water where a stream has cut its way down to shore. She spares a glance at the darkening sky before saying “I expect we are, it’s just that it’s gotten awfully cloudy all of a sudden. Lothering isn’t very stormy. Good for crops, but a bit shit for learning to gauge inclement weather.”

“Crops? Hawke, what are you-“ Thunder peals in the distance. “Shit.”

Hawke chews the inside of her lip, tucking a few silvers into her belt. There’s a terrifying little porcelain doll in the bandit’s money pouch as well and she drops it into her pocket next to a suggestively-shaped piece of coral from up the beach and a vial of lamp oil. The last bandit lies slumped on a rocky overhang a few paces away. Never one to leave a stone unturned or a body un-looted, she starts toward it when Varric grabs her wrist. His palm is warm and dry. 

“It’s gonna rain like hell.”  
___

“Fucking bandits,” Hawke says through chattering teeth. 

She rubs her hands against one another briskly, trying to still her shaking fingers. They’d been halfway down the shoreline to an old hideaway of Athenril’s, a little sea cave tucked away in the rocky cliffs, when a group of raiders set upon them. Between them, she and Varric had made quick work of the fight, but they’d lost precious minutes and no sooner had the last archer fallen than the skies opened above them. “Didn’t even get a chance to see if they had anything interesting on them,” she mutters bitterly.

Varric snorts. “They’ll be there when the weather clears.”

“Yes, but will we? It’s freezing in here.” 

Athenril chose this cave as a hideaway because, rumor had it, it had the convenience of not one but two entrances onto the water. As a former smuggler, Hawke understands the appeal, but sitting in the damn thing, wind howling past her, it’s begun to seem a far less attractive feature. Brushing her dripping bangs out of her eyes, she peers over to where Varric is trying to light a bit of driftwood aflame. 

“Any luck?” Varric squints over at her, then gestures down at the very much unburned wood as if to say clearly not. Hawke sits next to him, close enough that she can feel the warmth coming off of his body. “I suppose I should have brought Bethany along.”

“And miss out on this quality bonding opportunity? Never! Call me crazy, but I never go into the Deep Roads with someone I can’t see myself freezing to death with in a cave.” Leaning back against the cave wall, Varric sighs. 

“We won’t die,” Hawke says. “You’ll lose a few toes at most. When Carver-” She falters. Mother does so hate it when she brings him up-Carver isn’t hers to remember, not when its her fault he’s gone. But, Mother isn’t here and she misses telling embarrassing stories about him more than she can say. “When Carver was little, he got stuck out in the barn during a snowstorm and almost lost his left pinky toe.”

Varric laughs, the sound a pleasure. She can’t remember the last time Carver’s name wasn’t followed by a barrage of tears. “How’d he get stuck?”

Hawke sniffs delicately and shrugs. “It’s a mystery,” she says, her voice high and thin. “The world may never know.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, then, not quite a companionable one. Hawke chides herself for the lull. Dead brothers are not inspirational conversation pieces and she really would do well to remember that. 

Thunder rolls in the distance.

“It gets easier, you know,” Varric says. Hawke frowns, not sure what he means. “Talking about them. The more you do it, easier it gets.”

“Mother’s become very delicate.” An understatement if she’s ever made one, but one borne from a place of love. 

“Well, if you ever need an ear.” 

Hawke smiles thinly, meeting his gaze. She wonders who it is he’s lost, to be giving her advice. 

He really does have remarkable eyes, now that she’s looking at them, a rich honey brown that reminds her of summers in Lothering, of wheat fields and sweet apple wine. She shivers and he scoots closer, pressing his arm down the length of hers. That makes her want to shiver more, somehow, and she swallows. Somehow, it all goes wrong, as though her body’s forgotten how to do even that, and she falls prey to a loud coughing fit. When she looks back up, Varric’s eyes are turned towards the sea outside. 

The sky is, if anything, darker now than before, the rain falling in driving sheets that rival the spray of the waves. 

“I hope this letter is important enough to the Wardens to warrant all this trouble. Do you still have it?” Varric nods. “Give it here-I want to read it.”

“I don’t-”

“I’ll seal it back up. After all, how are we to know what to do with it if we don’t know where it’s going?”

“Fair enough.” He passes her the thick packet. 

The paper is nice, as far as Hawke can tell. Probably important. Probably worth a bit of coin to the right person, she reasons. She slides the tip of a dagger under the seal, prying it delicately so that she might be able to seal it up again later with no one the wiser. The envelope flap comes free with a satisfying little _pop _. “Oooh, it’s for the First Warden!”__

____

____

Varric scoots close again, reading over Hawke’s shoulder. “They have a contact in Kirkwall,” he says triumphantly. “Maybe they’ll have the Deep Roads maps we need.”

He’s very near, now, his face barely inches from hers. Hawke smiles, glancing at him. “Worth a bit of rain?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I could tell you were excited,” she says with a smirk, “unless that’s a dagger in your pocket.”

“I never carry my daggers in my pocket, Hawke. That’s just asking for-”

Hawke sits up straighter. “Pockets… Hang on.” She reaches into hers and pulls out first the phallic coral- _for Isabela _-then the porcelain doll- _its horrifying, Bethany will love it_ -and then finally _-___

_____ _

_____ _

“Oil?”

“Lamp oil,” Hawke says. “Very flammable lamp oil, I might add.”

Shaking his head, Varric shrugs. “Only you, Hawke.”

“You won’t be judging when I’ve saved your little toes from frostbite, now will you? Give that flint here.” She douses the driftwood in oil, strikes the flint, and before scarcely a minute has gone by, a fire crackles merrily before them. 

Varric spends the next several minutes collecting the driftwood scattered about the cave, while Hawke carefully tends the little flame. If, when he finally sits back down on the opposite side of the fire, Hawke is disappointed, she doesn’t let it bother her overly much. The fire will be far warmer, she reasons, than his damp shoulder.

 

  
____________________

Somehow, Varric expected the Deep Roads to be warmer than this. They were, back when they were in the main tunnels, but this primeval thaig is colder than ice. He may be projecting, but it’s almost as if everything, the very air around them, the stone itself, is sapping the heat from their bodies, feeding off of them.

Of course, it doesn’t help that nothing, not a single thing, in the whole damn place is flammable. 

Bethany and Anders are soundly asleep, tucked into their bedrolls a few yards away. Mages burn hotter than the rest of them, it seems, even here in the depths of the earth. Varric himself is awake. Awake, curled onto his side, and shivering. It’s not enough to kill him, he thinks, just enough to keep him from getting a decent night’s sleep. Although, if any enemies present themselves, exhaustion might make him as good as dead. 

Behind him, Hawke stirs. 

“Varric?” Her voice is soft, but he hears it clearly, so silent is the world around them. “Are you asleep?”

He sits up. “No. Is everything alright?”

“I’m freezing,” she says, voice shaking. Varric looks over, his eyes better suited to seeing in the dark than hers, adapted for life below the surface even if he wasn’t born there. “I thought we might try to conserve some body heat.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” he says carefully, not quite sure what she’s implying. 

Hawke crawls out of her bedroll and drags the thick cloth over to him. “Here, put yours on top of mine. Father always said it was important to get as much between you and the ground as you can in a situation like this. It’ll pull the heat right out of you, otherwise.”

Who is Varric to argue with an apostate who probably spent more time on the run than Varric has in Merchants’ Guild meetings. He layers the bedrolls, then pulls back the cover so Hawke can climb beneath. He follows suit, surprised to find how little room she takes up, curled on her side like that. 

They lay together, face to face, for several long minutes before Hawke’s chattering teeth calm and warmth slowly suffuses his hands again. “Better?” he asks.

“A bit.” 

Hawke’s breathing is steady but deep, and Varric becomes increasingly aware that neither of them is sleeping. In fact, he realizes, Hawke’s eyes aren’t even closed. Neither are his. Her body is tense, as though she’s trying not to relax too much, trying to keep to her side. Varric can’t say he blames her. If this were a story, he supposes, this would be a convenient excuse for him to touch her, kiss her, more, all of it quiet and under the cover of darkness, their unaware companions sleeping mere feet away. If this were a story, this could be the beginning of something more.

If he were a different man, maybe he’d try.

He doesn’t realize, of course, that it is a story, all of it. It’s not a beginning, not precisely, because that’s already come, but it is a step. An escalation. And he is a far different man than he realizes.

He tries. 

He reaches out and finds her hands beneath the blankets, closes his own around them. They’re icy cold still and he rubs them between his own, willing her to relax. She does, a bit. One of her feet brushes his shin and she signs, settling more heavily against the ground beneath them. 

“I’ll be a gentleman, Hawke, I promise.”

She laughs softly through her nose. “I never doubted that.” She’s quiet for a few minutes and then, “I didn’t get a chance to say before, but I’m sorry about Bartrand.”

A wave of emotion rises in Varric’s throat. Anger, pain, resentment, guilt, all of it rolled into one undecipherable tangle that threatens to erupt from him in a harsh sob. He swallows it down. 

“Shit, Hawke, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I dragged you into this mess.”

“You couldn’t have expected him to betray you that.”

He couldn’t have, but he can’t shake the feeling he should have anyway. He’s never mattered to Bartrand. Has always been expendable. To Bartrand, to his mother. To Bianca. He can’t say that to Hawke, though, so he shrugs. 

Hawke laces her fingers through his, squeezes them gently. “Everyone else will blame you for enough things that aren’t your fault, Varric. You don’t need to do it to yourself. What Bartrand did…” she takes a heavy breath, “it was unconscionable, but it was his decision.”

“If we get out of here, he’s gonna pay for it.”

The words hang between them, a promise, a prayer to whatever gods or ancestors can hear him, a truth he speaks into existence there, deep within the belly of the earth. Varric drifts off to sleep with it there, warming him, solidifying into something hard and living in his chest.

He wakes in the morning, Hawke’s fingers still intertwined with his.  
___

The next night, they find one another again in the darkness, and again the night after that, and again. Each morning, they awaken, hands and legs twined together, and pack their bedrolls before their companions rise. 

When their party shrinks by one, Bethany lost to the Wardens- _better to the Wardens than to the taint _-when Hawke for the first time doesn’t come to him, he goes to her, wraps her in his arms and holds her as she cries, doesn’t care if Anders notices. He thinks again of Bartrand and the ember of vengeance flares brighter.__

____

____

They reach the surface the next day.

Varric’s happier than he can say to return to the luxury of his suite at the Hanged Man. He bathes three times, stuffs himself with a warm meal and the best ale they have on tap, and crawls beneath his silken sheets. 

When he wakes in the night to find himself cold, his hands empty, he thinks of Hawke, wonders if she feels the same, streets away in that hovel of Gamlen’s, in a room that now houses an extra bed. He thinks of her, then rises and tosses an extra log on the fire. 

That will keep him warm enough.


	2. Act II

The scarcity of inns on the north side of the Vimmark Mountains is, frankly, appalling. Nearly a week of travel out of the Warden’s Prison and Hawke can still smell the stink of darkspawn on her leathers. She’s not particularly fussy about accommodations, usually, but she’ll happily trade the coat off her back for a hot meal, a warm bath, and a nice bed if they can find one. Varric, for his part, has been radiating great, pouty waves of displeasure for days. 

Night is falling fast and when thunder rumbles in the distance Hawke thinks she might cry. Bethany’s probably back to the Warden outpost at Ansburg by now and Hawke will be damned if she’s going to spend another night on the road when there’s another option.

There’s meant to be a town a few miles ahead, if the map’s to be trusted. Its track record thus far has been less than perfect, having also marked as towns two abandoned hunting camps, a series of caves infested with giant spiders, and a pile of logs that appear to have once been a cabin. Nevertheless, Hawke is determined to be an optimist.

A few miles up the road, a gentle rain has begun to fall and even Hawke’s optimism is flagging. But, as they press on in the gathering darkness, something catches her eye. 

“Are those lights?” Varric says, squinting ahead. 

Hawke sees them as well. Not just one or two, but a whole slew of them. “Could be the town?”

“Andraste’s tits, I hope so.”

It is, indeed, a town. Small, but rather quaint in a way that makes Hawke nostalgic for Lothering and Varric quip about backwater shantytowns. Small enough, they find, to have but one inn. And within that inn-

“Just the one room?” Hawke asks.

“‘Sright, messere. Busy time of year, you know. All the caravans,” the innkeeper says with a shrug. Nevermind that Hawke hasn’t seen a caravan in weeks and the pass is sure to be snowed over in a few weeks. “It’s got a big bed. Missus cleaned it just this morning, she did. It’s, ah-” the innkeeper clears his throat, not quite meeting their eyes, “it’s got a tub, as well. Hot water, on the house.”

Maker, how bad do they smell, Hawke wonders. She looks to Varric. 

“Hawke, if I have to spend another night in a spider cave-”

She turns back to the innkeeper. “We’ll take it.”

___

“He wasn’t lying,” Varric says. “That might be the biggest bed I’ve ever seen.”

The room is at the top of the house, under the eaves. Were Hawke being generous, she might call it cozy, rather than cramped. The bed, large enough for at least four people to sleep in without touching one another, takes up most of it, almost touching the slanting ceiling on the edges. Across from it is a small table with a pair of chairs that they have to move to open the door fully, a narrow chest of drawers with a mirror atop them, and a round copper tub. 

There’s remarkably little privacy.

“It’s not quite dinner yet. Shall I check around for some clean clothes? You can bathe first,” she offers. Her face flushes at the thought of him in the tub.

Varric nods and Hawke is out the door in a flash. 

She stops to ask the innkeeper for hot water, towels, and directions to a shop where she might find something to wear. Nearly an hour later, she returns, pack full of fresh supplies, soft, supple new leathers for them both and a pair of sturdy linen tunics. Nothing so fine as Varric’s silks, or cut low enough to display his magnificent chest, more’s the pity, but clean nonetheless. It’s a lucky thing Merchants’ Guild caravans are common enough along this route. She can’t imagine many small towns in Ferelden having clothes to fit a dwarf. 

Outside the door to their room, she pauses, listening for sounds that might indicate Varric is still in the bath. Hearing none, she knocks softly. “Varric?”

The door opens. 

Varric’s hair is damp, his body bare, as far as she can tell, save the towel wrapped around his waist. Hawke swallows. 

“Any luck?” he asks. 

Ah, clothes. Hawke rummages in her pack and retrieves the pants and tunic she’s gotten for him. “No silk, I’m afraid.” 

They stand opposite one another for a moment, unsure how to carry on. 

“I’ll just wait out here, while you change, shall I?” Hawke says and retreats to sit on the top step of the staircase just outside their door, head in her hands. A few minutes later, the door swings open again.

“All yours,” Varric says.   
___

Hawke towels her wet hair, rubbing the dark strands between her hands. It’s gotten long, lately, longer than she typically lets it, but she can’t say she hates the way it brushes her shoulders. Perhaps she’ll grow it out. 

She is considering it in the mirror when Varric returns, wooden board carrying sliced cheeses and meats in one hand and a bottle of wine and pair of goblets in the other. Hawke is ravenous, she realizes. “You, Mr. Tethras, are a genius. You have my undying affection.”

Varric smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “It’s just cheese, Hawke.”

“Just cheese,” she scoffs, taking the plate and goblets and scooting a few feet back on the bed to make room for him. Varric uncorks the wine. Hawke grabs it from him and, after considering for a moment, splits the entire thing between the two goblets. 

“Easy there.”

“I’m sorry, Varric, but it’s been a very long journey, one that started with Carta assassins trying to murder me in my sleep and ended with us having to kill an immortal Darkspawn magister who claims to have tainted the Golden City, so forgive me if my pours are a bit generous.”

“My apologies, Serah.” 

Hawke inclines her head regally, then passes him a goblet once he’s settled cross-legged on the bed. 

Varric raises his glass. “To our illustrious innkeeper.”

Hawke’s eyes sting, but she lifts her glass. “To a dry, warm night in a real bed.”

Hours later, food gone, the first bottle of wine drained and a second well on it’s way, Hawke lounges across the bed on her stomach. Varric sits on the floor, propped against the foot of the bed. 

“You know,” he says, “I’m pretty sure the guy downstairs thinks we’re...you know…”

“Together?” Hawke whispers. Varric nods. “Can’t imagine what gave him that impression. I asked him for two rooms, after all.”

“He winked at me when I went for the second bottle of wine.”

“At least we have his blessing,” she says. “Can you imagine, you and me together.”

Funny thing is, she can imagine, sort of. Not without blushing, of course, but there aren’t many things Hawke can do without blushing. It’s an unfortunate effect of her complexion and one which she will never quite forgive her mother for passing on. She blushes now, as she thinks of it, of Varric tipping her back on the bed, kissing her, stroking her skin, peeling that new tunic over her head and-

“Been a long time since I imagined myself with anyone,” Varric says softly. Sadly. “Which is, admittedly, a weird place to be while also not really single.”

Not...not single? Hawke falters. “You’re…”

Varric scrubs his face with one of his hands. “Shit, this stuff must be stronger than I thought. I don’t really like to talk about it.”

Hawke keeps quite still, curiously devastated, but curious all the same and afraid that if she makes a sudden movement he’ll stop talking or bolt or...something. “You can, if you’d like to. I won’t tell a soul. It’s just, you’d never mentioned being in a relationship with...anyone.”

“Bianca,” he says.

“Your...crossbow?” Hawke frowns. “Varric your crossbow doesn’t count.”

“Bianca,” he starts again, “designed the crossbow.”

“I thought Gerav-”

Varric sighs. “Gerav made it, but Bianca designed her. She’s a genius smith.”

“Where is she?”

There’s a long silence, during which Hawke is aware only of her breathing, far louder than she wishes it would be. “Married.”

Married. It makes an odd sort of sense, she thinks, that Varric would be the type to remain loyal, even then. She can see him as a romantic. “I’m sorry.”

“Such is life, Hawke” Varric says with a shrug. “You must have someone out there, too. Blondie, maybe?”

Hawke snorts. “Anders is far too in love with his cause. And so...blonde.”

“Fenris?” She shakes her head. “Daisy? Isabela?”

“Perhaps I’m destined to stay alone forever,” she sighs. “I can be an old cat lady, except with mabari. Or dragons, maybe.”  
___

When the wine is finally gone and the night has grown darker, stormier, they dim the lights and crawl beneath the heavy comforter. Hawke falls asleep almost instantly, pressed as far to her side of the bed as she can manage without bumping her head on the low ceiling. Varric, however, lies awake, wondering what possessed him to bring up Bianca tonight. Lies awake wondering why, if he’s taken, if his chance at happiness has passed, if Bianca is his One, why he wishes the bed were smaller and that Hawke wasn’t so very far away.

 

____________________ 

Varric’s never realized before how thin human blood is. 

How, how is it possible, he wonders, that between Blondie, Sunshine, Rivaini, Aveline and Hawke, after all these years, he’s never noticed. Never realized how easily it could flow across the tile of the Viscount’s throne room, spill over his fingers, no matter how he tries to keep it where it belongs. 

Hawke’s pale skin grows paler by the second, paler and paler as the floor gets redder and his hands, Maker, his hands can’t keep it all where it belongs. The Arishok isn’t bleeding this much and he’s fucking dead- _you are basalit-an after all, one day, we shall return_ -over Varric’s (not Hawke’s, not if he can help it, never Hawke’s) dead body they will. It must be the blood, these damn humans and their thin, watery blood that just _leaks_ everywhere. 

He presses harder on the hole that’s where Hawke’s navel should be.

Her eyes are, somehow, both dull and glassy at once, unfocused. Her breath hitches. Something slick brushes across his hand and he tears his gaze from her face. It’s her fingers tugging weakly at his, scrabbling for purchase. 

She’s dying. She coughs and a fresh wave of warm, watery blood bubbles over his hands. Holy Andraste, she’s actually dying. 

_No, no, no, no_ , in his head he’s shouting, screaming, but his mouth is shut tight. There are things he should say, things he should tell her if she’s dying, things he should have told her when she wasn’t. He considers it in those long moments, but he’s too much of a coward to even admit them to himself, in the end. 

Aveline is there, finally, with a bottle of something thick and bitter smelling. She shoves a poultice into Varric’s hands, gauzy and sickly sweet with herbs. “Blondie?” he asks. 

“I’ve sent word with Fenris,” Aveline says. “We need to get her back to the estate.”

___

Miraculously, they do. 

A trail of blood marks their path from the Keep to the Garden district, bold enough that Varric can see it stretching behind them even in the eerie half darkness of the fire-lit night. The city is in shambles-his city, but that doesn’t matter yet. 

Anders is waiting in the foyer when they drag her up the front steps. 

Hawke’s skin matches the pale, soft linen of her sheets when they finally haul her onto the bed. She’s still bleeding heavily, _a good sign, the blood replenisher is working, you did well Aveline_ , but she’s slipping in and out of consciousness. Varric breathes a sigh of relief when Anders skims a hand across her forehead and her eyes fall shut. He stays there by her side while Aveline tugs at Hawke’s boots. Stays there while Anders unties and hands him his own sash, heavy with blood, from around her waist. Stays until they peel Hawke’s shirt over her head and toss it aside. He retreats, then. 

“I’ll get Orana to boil more water.”

Once he’s out of the room, he slumps against the wall. Orana is nowhere to be seen, but the changing of pots and pans and running water tells him the elf is already busy boiling. 

He’s been writing Hawke’s story for years and it never occurred to him that maybe he’s been writing a tragedy. Now, he wonders if that’s what it’s been all along. 

___

Dawn breaks before Anders emerges from Hawke’s bedchamber, bloody and worn thin. 

“I’m not sure what she was thinking,” he sighs, “but at least it won’t kill her.”

Varric bristles, despite having spent most of the night wondering the same thing. “One duel to stave off a war seemed cheap on that side of things.”

“Perhaps if she’d sent Aveline in, it would have been. That leather armor of hers isn’t meant to withstand being impaled.” Anders brushes his hair back from his brow. Flakes of dried blood fall from his knuckles. “She’ll sleep for...well, a while, anyway. Aveline’s gone back to the Keep and I’m sure the clinic has a line halfway to the docks by now. Will you stay? Keep an eye on her?”

Varric nods. Anders claps a hand to Varric’s shoulder as he passes by, heading for the stairs. 

“Blondie?” Anders turns. “How close?”

“Closer than I’d like to think about.”

___

Hawke sleeps. 

Anders’ _a while, anyway_ turns out to be days, long enough that Varric finds himself spooning broth through Hawke’s closed lips, sponging water across her brow, changing bandages in a cycle that feels endless. His body aches, sore from cutting a path through the city, from dragging Hawke through its streets. He should be tired, but his very blood seems to vibrate. Finally, Orana brings up not just another bowl of broth, but a spare blanket as well and pushes him into a chair by the bedside. Varric is asleep before the protest reaches his lips. 

Someone, Bodhan probably, fetches a fresh set of clothes and his folio of papers from the Hanged Man. Varric wakes to find them stacked neatly on the nightstand. 

He leafs through the papers. Nothing urgent, a hastily scrawled note in Daisy’s messy hand- _so many people who need help, Varric, I’m so glad Anders has taught me some new healing spells_ -a small packet of change from Isabela- _paying my debts before I leave town, don’t spend it all in one place_ -a few new contracts sent over from the Merchants’ Guild. Beneath it all, grabbed by accident no doubt, the latest pages he’s been writing. Hawke’s story. 

As a rule, he doesn’t review his work until he’s finished a draft, because a critical eye isn’t a creative eye. 

Today, he reads. He finishes the few pages quickly, then reads them again. Then again. He reads until his brain stops picking at sloppy phrases and mixed metaphors, until the shape of the tale becomes clear to him. A hero’s tale. Hawke, saving the poor of the city from a deadly poison, grasping for diplomacy and honor at every turn, her unflinching honesty winning the respect of the Arishok. What he wrote was a tale of triumph. Honor and truth bridging the gap, cooling tensions where others sought to stoke the fires of unrest. What he reads is a tale of hopeless struggle, diplomacy that lets tensions fester and rot until the only thing his hero can do is toss herself on the grenade to dampen the blast. 

What a difference an ending makes. 

He loses sight of the fact that this isn’t an ending at all, simply another stop along the way. There are years and years to come, though he doesn’t know it yet. It isn’t his fault, truly, that he can’t see the narrative for the proverbial trees, but the fact that he can’t remains, and so he worries.

There’s a part of him that wishes she would just let things be. Just lead her life, stick her head in the sand. Stop searching for trouble. There’s another part, a much bigger one, that worries he’s the cause of this all. He’s writing this narrative around Hawke. The people who come to her for help, they’re coming expecting a character, one he’s written, a myth he’s perpetuated. And this is where it’s gotten her. 

“You look like shit.”

Varric looks up from his papers to find Hawke smirking at him. Her eyes are dark and sunken, skin dull, but there’s no mistaking that look. 

_You’re alive_ , something inside of him sings, _you’re safe_. “You’re one to talk,” he says. 

___

“Do me a favor, Varric. Next time someone asks me to duel them, don’t let me say yes.” Hawke winces as she tries to reach for a glass of water on her nightstand. 

Varric rolls his eyes and hands her the cup. “I tried to get you to say no this time.”

“Yes, well, maybe I”ll listen now that I know how much it hurts when I don’t.”

“Fat chance.”

She smiles. She’s weak still, but fighting. Healing. She sips her water and lies back on the pillows. 

“Tired?” he asks. 

Hawke nods. “Read to me?”

Anything, anything for her. Anything she ask, he’ll do. Varric stalks to her bookshelf, runs a finger along the spines. “Genitivi?” 

Hawke yawns exaggeratedly. 

“ _In Praise of the Humble Nug_.” 

She scrunches her nose. “That one’s a cookbook, I think.”

“ _Cautionary Tales for the Adventurous_?” Varric pulls that one down from the shelf and opens to a page somewhere in the middle. “ _‘It was then that he realized he wasn’t alone. The abandoned camp in front of him was unbelievably welcoming, like a mirage. The fire felt like a warm hand grabbing his heart. It reminded him of a previous life so long ago, when he was happy. Running on the sunflower fields with his boy, the sun on his face. Laying next to the fireplace, with his beautiful wife in his arms.’_ ”

“Sounds racy,” Hawke says. 

Varric clears his throat and puts the book back. 

“Maybe not that one. _Adventures of the Black Fox_?” No protest from Hawke. He glances over his shoulder at her and she shrugs. “Snarky Orlesian thieves it is,” he says. “Don’t go getting any bright ideas from this, though. He gets arrested and tortured for like a year solid.”

“Spoilers!” 

Hawke sets her jaw, braces her body, so that when she scoots herself to the middle of the bed she is prepared for the pain. Varric starts to chide her, but she frowns at him and he falls quiet. She pats the bed next to her. “Sit next to me? Please? It’s cold in here.”

Varric sighs, but settles down next to her on the bed, adjusting his glasses on the end of his nose. Hawke sinks against him, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. 

He begins to read.

___

Hawke grits her teeth as she struggles to put one foot in front of the other, toes seeking for purchase on the thick carpet of her bedroom. Her movement is slow but steady. Tiny steps, a small groan with each, but steps nonetheless. Hands firm on Varric’s shoulders as he leads her, almost in a dance. 

“We really should have been doing this days ago,” Anders says. “Can’t have those muscles getting lazy.”

Varric rolls his eyes. “Not sure lazy’s the right word here.”

“Oh, Varric, leave him be. Anders is right. I’ve been a slug and it’s well past time I’m back on my feet.” Hawke winks at him. “Besides, we can’t have you carrying me up the steps of Viscount’s Keep when Elthina names me Champion, now can we?”

The news has just come, but Hawke’s already been lording it over them all afternoon. 

Varric doesn’t say, but he would gladly carry her up the steps of the Keep, same as he carried her down them. 

“Do you think I”ll be healed enough by then, Anders?” she continues, not really waiting for the mage’s reply. “Oh, perhaps we should have a party afterwards! Orana can make kebabs. Rotisserie nug. A whole feast of food impaled on sticks, just to celebrate.”

Anders catches Varric’s gaze and rolls his eyes good naturedly. “Let’s just concentrate on the walking for today, Hawke. You can menu plan with Orana later.”

Hawke smiles, but Varric can see the thin sheen of sweat beading on her brow as they make another circle of her bedroom. She’s good at making light of it, but there’s a long road ahead of her. 

Her knees buckle, then, legs crumpling beneath her and she cries out. Varric catches her beneath her arms, her face inches from his, full of panic. He presses his forehead to hers for a moment and then Anders is there, helping her to the edge of the bed. 

“That was a good start, but perhaps that’s enough for today,” he says. Hawke nods, suddenly out of breath and pale. 

A quick check to make sure she hasn’t reopened the wound and Anders is back on his way to Darktown with a promise to stop by again tomorrow. 

Varric lingers at the door. He hasn’t been back to his suite in the Hanged Man in over a week. Clothes have appeared when he’s needed them and he hasn’t questioned it, hasn’t questioned whether Hawke wants him here. It hasn’t mattered because she’s needed him. Stumble aside, she’s mobile now, though. Healing. Perhaps it’s time for him to go too. The thought makes him feel hollow inside.

“You aren’t going, are you?” she asks. 

“I was thinking about it, yeah,” he admits. “You must be getting sick of me.”

Hawke’s eyes shine, full of unspent tears. “Would you stay?”

“Of course, Hawke.”

_Anything, anything for you._  
___

Another week passes and, suddenly, Hawke is the Champion of Kirkwall. 

Of course, there’s a party. 

Orana and Sandal have strung tiny lights across the courtyard of Hawke’s estate, glowing softly under the canopy of white Orlesian silk. A trail of lanterns, tables of food-all on sticks, as promised because Hawke has nothing if not a twisted sense of humor. It’s a beautiful sight to behold. 

Varric is glad she’s alive, he really is, but there’s something about this celebration that doesn’t feel right to him and he can’t quite quell the churning of his stomach. 

For her part, Hawke is radiant. The Champion’s armor suits her. Her eyes sparkle in the candlelight and she looks healthier than she has in weeks. She’s effervescent and it’s like nothing happened at all, like she wasn’t just lying on the floor of Viscount’s Keep, dying, bleeding as the life seeped out of her and through his fingers. Like he didn’t almost just lose her. Like none of it mattered. 

Aveline finds him where he leans against one of the garden walls. She’s a bit drunk, carrying a whole bottle of fizzy Orlesian wine around with her, rather than a glass. “Smile, Varric,” she says. “It’s a party.”

“Champion, huh?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Aveline says with a heavy sigh. “I’ve got enough work without having to worry about all that. Maker knows the city needs someone in charge, though. Whether Hawke is the right choice or not...well, we’ll see, won’t we?”

Varric laughs, short and cold. “Hell of a job to dump on anybody.”

“I’ll drink to that.” And she does, a long swig. Anders is across the way plucking on his lute while Hawke dances a funny little jig with Merrill. “You could tell her, you know.”

“What?”

Aveline sighs again. “And you all think _I’m dense_.” She shakes her head and pours the last of her bottle into Varric’s glass. “Drink up.”

The bubbles tickle Varric’s nose, but he drinks the whole glass anyway. By the time he’s finished, Aveline is gone. From across the garden, Hawke catches his eye and smiles. His chest tightens. _You could tell her_. No, he can’t. There’s nothing to tell. If he wants to do right by Hawke, he needs to leave her be, stop interfering. Let her make her own life, her own reputation. 

Varric can’t take his eyes from hers, though. Before he knows it, she’s walking over to him. Stalking, hips swaying, eyes bright. He licks his lips. 

“Hello, Varric.”

“Champion.”

Hawke smiles. “I quite like the sound of that. You know, I’ve been thinking. About that book of yours.”

“Oh?” He’s been thinking about it, too. Thinking about burning it and never looking back.

“I’ve been thinking,” she repeats, “that _The Tale of the Champion_ is a much better title that _The Tale of Hawke, the Gigantic Pudding_ , or whatever it is you’re calling it these days.”

“I’ll take it under consideration.” Varric smiles up at her, a smile he knows doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Congratulations, Hawke.” He takes her hands in his and leans up to kiss her cheek. She smells like lilacs and sparkling wine and something more he can’t place. “Enjoy your party.”

“Are you leaving?”

He nods. “I’ve got some business that needs my attention. Come find me when you need me.”

Hawke cocks her head at him, brows knitted together, but Varric turns, unlatching the garden gate. She doesn’t follow him.

As he begins the long trek back to Lowtown, Varric isn’t sure of very many things. What he’s to blame for, where all of this is going to go. All he knows is that The Tale of the Champion is a hell of a better title than anything he’s ever even considered for the book he’s not sure he can write anymore.


	3. Act III

Summer arrives, warm and dry, and with it, Aveline’s wedding. 

It’s meant to be a simple affair, vows in the Chantry, a small party at the estate. In retrospect, Hawke thinks, Aveline should have known better. After all, a wedding officiated by the Grand Cleric herself could hardly be anything short of extravagant. Once Donnic’s mother hears of both the Grand Cleric’s involvement and the Champion’s expected attendance and, dare she hope, participation as one of Aveline’s wedding party, things get a bit out of hand. 

And so it is that Hawke finds herself sitting in the Hanged Man one night, nursing an ale and waiting for Varric to come back from wherever he’s been hiding. She hasn’t seen much of him, lately. She suspects he’s upset with her, though she can’t imagine why. 

Another hour passes and Hawke’s just about to give up when Varric lumbers in, Bianca slung across his back, mouth twisted into a scowl. He makes for the stairs and Hawke considers a moment before following him. 

The door to his suite is closed when she reaches it. She considers again, wondering if this mightn’t be the best time. But, this is important and so she throws caution and reason to the wind and knocks firmly. 

“Varric,” she calls, knocking again. “I know you’re in there. It’s Hawke.”

The door swings open and Varric squints up at her. “I know it’s you, Hawke. Come on in.”

He shuts the door behind her and sprawls across a chair by the fire. 

“Rough day?” she asks, doing the same.

“Merchant’s Guild meeting.”

Hawke winces. “I thought you didn’t go to those.”

“This is why.” He groans, leaning back in his chair. “They want to declare Bartrand dead.”

“They haven’t found him, have they?” They’d hidden the body so well. If it’s resurfaced, there will be questions they won’t want to anwer. 

Varric shrugs. “No, but they’re beginning to realize he’s not coming back any time soon. Ever,” he concedes. “As long as he’s ‘alive’, he’s technically in charge of House Tethras and all its holdings.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawke says softly. 

“It is what it is. That’s not why you’re here, though.”

This isn’t going like Hawke hoped it might. But, she’s here and so she presses on. “I need a date for Aveline’s wedding. I thought you might…?”

“A date?”

Hawke nods. “I normally wouldn’t worry, but it’s turned into a rather extravagant affair and, well, it’s expected, I suppose. You are coming anyway, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m coming. If the wedding’s anything like the courtship, it’s gonna be a hell of a spectacle.” The understatement of the decade, at least, if not the century. “Date, huh?”

“Platonically, of course. As my trusty, platonic, dwarven companion.” She slides her eyes over to Varric’s. There’s mirth there; she’s amused him, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

“How could I refuse an offer like that,” he says. “What color are you wearing?”

“I’ll have the dressmaker send you a swatch.”  
___

The day arrives. 

The ceremony is beautiful. Hawke cries. Merrill cries. Donnic, bless him, cries harder and Isabela has to hand him the handkerchief she has tucked down the front of her dress so he can finish his vows. Aveline rolls her eyes- _lovingly_ , she will insist later, _a loving eye roll_ -and the two are joined in front of Andraste, the Maker, and all of Kirkwall. 

The reception is breathtaking, the social event of the admittedly dismal season in Kirkwall. An open-sided tent, overlooking the rocky coastline. Lanterns, a broad open space for dancing. An Orlesian string ensemble. Roasted meats and savory vegetables and sweet frilly cakes that have Hawke going back for thirds. And all through it, Varric sits solemnly at her side. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you used to be fun,” Hawke says. They’re seated at a table on the edge of the dance floor, watching Fenris dip Isabela while Aveline and Donnic wrestle for control of their waltz- _he can’t keep pace properly, I already looked foolish enough in the dress_ -among the crowd. 

Varric snorts. “Must be another dwarf you’re thinking of. Worthy? Bartrand?”

“No,” Hawke quips. “I’m quite sure it was you. Varric Tethras, author, professional layabout, merchant prince?”

“Sure sounds like me.”

Hawke laughs softly. She’s missed this, missed sitting and talking and laughing with him. And so she tells him. “I miss you.”

“Hawke-”

“No, hear me out. I don’t know what it is that I’ve done, but I feel like you’ve been upset with me. I hate it. Varric, please, tell me what I can do.”

He closes his eyes, sighs. When he opens them again, they’re softer. Something has shifted within him. “Everything’s fine, Hawke. You haven’t done anything.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Hawke searches his eyes. She can’t say she believes him, not truly, but Maker does she want to. She can’t bear to be without him. If he’s lying, only time will tell. “Dance with me?”

Varric hesitates a moment, then shrugs. “Why the hell not.”

“Just what every girl wants to hear, Varric. What a charmer you are!”

He gets to his feet and bows deeply, offering her his hand. “I aim to please, Serah.”

They find a quiet corner of the dance floor and Varric wraps an arm around Hawke’s waist, drawing her close. She’s always wondered, idly, if they could manage this. She’s not so very tall, after all; Varric’s eyes are level with her nose, or chin, depending on her shoes. She’s surprised to find, though, how very well they fit. He laces his fingers through hers, tucks his face into the crook of her neck. 

“I should have told you earlier how great you look in that dress,” he murmurs. 

“For a human, you mean?” She knows she’s not his type: several inches too high, far too leggy, slim in all the wrong places.

He spins them a quarter turn. “For anyone.”

“Flatterer.” She sighs, relaxing against him.

“Nice flowers,” he says, gesturing to the arc of blooms tied around her wrist. 

Hawke turns them in the dim light. “They’re Aveline’s. Whoever catches them is supposed to be the next to marry. Isabela practically pushed me into their path when she saw they were coming straight for her.”

Varric snorts. 

“I’m not kidding,” Hawke says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her move faster outside of a fight.”

“You deserve that, Hawke, if you want it.”

She swallows. This isn’t the conversation she wants to have with him, not tonight. “So do you.”

They’ve never really spoken of Bianca, not since that night when Varric had first let it slip, but Hawke thinks on it sometimes, wonders what could make a woman give him up, or whether she’d found him second, once it was too late to get out of a marriage that didn’t suit her. Wonders what Bianca knows of her. 

She fingers the collar of Varric’s shirt, a deep aquamarine silk to that matches her dress perfectly. He must have taken the swatch she sent to his tailor. It suits him, she thinks, this fabric that the dressmaker swears is the exact color of her eyes. Suits him well, makes the honey gold of his eyes and his hair shine even in the growing darkness. 

The song changes, then, a merry jig instead of the sweet, slow tune they’ve just finished, and Varric pulls away from her. “How about a walk?”

Hawke nods, slipping away from the dancers before one of the guardsmen can trample her in his enthusiasm. 

Hands joined, they jog a little ways away from the tent, until the sound of the music fades, replaced by the crashing of waves on the shore far below them. The sun has dipped beneath the horizon, the sky awash in pink and purple and brilliant orange. The sea breeze tugs at Hawke’s hair. She turns away from the harbor, from the great, heavy chains dipping below its surface, turns toward Ferelden.

“It really was a beautiful wedding,” she sighs. “It’s nice to know something beautiful can still exist in this city.”

“Is Kirkwall home for you, Hawke?”

She thinks for a moment. Lothering was home for a long time, even though they’d only lived there for a handful of years. The place they’d grown up, the place they’d lost her father, lost Carver. It isn’t now. Is Kirkwall? She thinks of the docks, the Lowtown bazaar, the tunnels of Darktown, the chains of the Gallows, the uneven cobblestone of the Garden district in Hightown, even her own estate. They leave her empty as well. But...Gamlen’s dingy hovel, her uncle, Bethany, Mother. Varric’s suite in the Hanged Man, the smoke from his pipe curling in the air as he deals cards out to Isabela and Fenris and Aveline. Merrill and Anders dancing in her garden. Orana, Sandal, and Bodhan passing food around the dinner table.

“I suppose it is,” she says. “For now, at least. While you all are here.”

“Is that why you did it? Fought the Arishok?”

An odd question, she thinks. “I did it because it was the right thing to do, Varric. It saved lives.”

“I stopped writing the book.”

“ _The Tale of the Champion_?” Varric nods. “Why?”

Varric is quiet for a moment. He kicks a cobble off the edge of the cliff, waits until they hear the splash before answering. “Your life should be yours. Telling the story before it’s done, it changes the ending.”

Hawke chews her lip. “I don’t quite understand, Varric, but I don’t think you need to worry. What’s happened in Kirkwall, what’s happening, I don’t think we change it. Make it better, maybe, but there’s so much unrest here. One day…” she shrugs. “One day, it’ll come to a head whether we’re here or not. What people think of me or expect of me...I just don’t think it matters, in the end.”

“It’s taking things from you, Hawke. Your sister, your mother. Your life, almost. Things you shouldn’t lose.”

“Life takes things from everyone. Your mother, your father, your brother. Merrill’s clan. Anders’ sanity, I think sometimes. We still have to try.” She takes his hands in hers. “You don’t have to write the book Varric, but I am going to help, as long as I’m in a position to. Whatever the cost.”

She takes a step towards him, until their bodies are inches apart. It’s a dangerous move, Hawke knows, one she probably shouldn’t make and she’s considering stepping back when Isabela comes racing down the cliff and claps them both on the back. 

“There you are!” she cries, prising their hands apart and taking one in each of hers. “They’re about to do gifts and and you must come see what I’ve gotten them. Aveline is going to die. Anders and Fenris have bets on exactly what shade of magenta her face turns when they open it.”

“Alright, alright, we’ll be there in a moment” Hawke says. She turns to Varric. “Back to the party?”

He smiles. “Lead the way, Champion.”

 

____________________

“Are you sure you want to do this, Hawke? Stealing? From a duke?”

Hawke leans back in her chair, propping her feet on Varric’s dining table. “Varric, we steal from people all the time.”

“People who deserve it, usually,” he grumbles.

“He’s Orlesian,” she says. “You said it yourself. They stole a whole country once. If that doesn’t deserve a little retribution, I don’t know what does.”

He can’t entirely fault her logic, but still...something about this whole caper Tallis’s, something about Tallis herself that rubs him the wrong way. “I knew reading you that book about the Black Fox was a bad idea.”

“Or,” Hawke says, “an inspiration.”

Varric’s eyes narrow. He’d bet Bianca that Hawke will be ass deep in trouble, hurling puns at the duke before this whole thing is finished. But, he’ll be damned if he’s going to miss a second of it.

“There’s just one _tiny_ problem,” Hawke says slowly. Varric glances sidelong at her. “If I recall, the duke was a bit...handsy at the Champion’s banquet. He made quite the offer-”

“Which you refused, of course?”

“Naturally! I don’t want him to take my attendance as a sign that I’ve changed my mind on the matter, though.” Varric isn’t sure he likes where this is going. “I suspect if I showed up with a significant other in tow, he’d get the message.”

“Hawke,” he says, warning in his voice. It’s a good plan, but a spectacularly bad idea. 

She leans forward, elbows spread wide across the table so she’s practically lying across it. “Please, Varric? We’ve shared a room before. Tallis says it’ll just be the hunt and a few social things. It might be fun!”

He shakes his head. 

“I suppose I could ask Fenris, or maybe Isabela,” she says. “It’s just that you’re such an accomplished liar, I know you’d make it believable.”

She’s flattering him, in her own sort of way. It’s sort of working, though he’s not sure what that says about him.

“Besides, you’re the only one who won’t have to buy a whole new wardrobe to fit in. You’re always so fashionable.”

“Stop, Hawke,” he says with a sigh. “You win. I’ll go.”

Hawke grins, squeezes his hand. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

Somehow, Varric doubts that.  
___

They arrive at Chateau Haine just after midday a few days later, having stopped in Cumberland to resupply and finalize their plans-

_“I’ll be the Champion of Kirkwall-”_

_“Hawke, you are the Champion of Kirkwall.”_

_“As I said. You’re Varric Tethras, author extraordinaire, and my kept lover-”_

_“Hawke-”_

_“And Tallis is our trusty elven servant/bodyguard/eyes on the inner workings of the Chateau.”_

The Duke is overjoyed, if a bit surprised, to see Hawke there. Less so that Varric is also in attendance, but, to his credit, he takes it all in stride. Tallis he barely pays a mind to. Hawke herself is overjoyed to find that the Duke has invited a spare Amell to fill her place and spends several minutes after their arrival hugging Bethany tightly. 

Varric is dismayed to discover that the reception to be held that evening is to be a masquerade. Tallis mentioned, and Varric packed for, the possibility, but he’s been nursing a secret hope that the elf was exaggerating. 

Nevertheless, as dinner approaches, he dons his costume. Hawke is in their shared bathroom, preparing her hair or makeup, or whatever it is women do to get ready for parties. He’s not sure what it is she’s brought to wear, something scandalous, he expects, but he thinks she’ll approve of his outfit. Finally she emerges from the bathroom, mere minutes before they’re expected downstairs. Her mouth falls open.

“Varric, you’re-

“The Black Fox,” he says, bowing low. 

Hawke huffs. “But _I’m_ the Black Fox.”

He looks up. “Shit.” 

Indeed she is, and a better one at that. Her jerkin, soft, worn black leather embroidered with gold, looks very old and very fine. “Is that-”

Hawke nods. “The Black Fox’s Jerkin. I’ve had a buyer on the lookout for artifacts for months. The ring’s authentic, too,” she says with a smirk. “At least one of them is.”

The other nine rings glittering on her fingers are near perfect replicas, though. What an embarrassment. 

“I thought you’d wear a dress,” he says lamely.

“And pass up the irony of masquerading as a thief known for robbing and insulting Orlesian nobles at a party where I’m planning on robbing and insulting an Orlesian noble? Varric, it’s like you hardly know me.”

“Well, what do we do now?”

Frowning, Hawke glances at the clock. The party’s due to begin any second. “Perhaps we’re so very much in love that we even dress alike.”

“Peachy,” Varric sighs. It’s going to be a hell of a night.  
___

The party is, somehow, better and worse than Varric imagined. Scarcely anyone mentions their fashion faux pas, save Bethany who can hardly keep herself from laughing, particularly once she’s been clued in to their ruse. And it’s a good thing she has been, because Hawke herself spends the evening selling it to anyone who will look. 

She’s sitting perched on his lap, arms wound round his neck, chatting idly to the Duke himself when Tallis appears, dressed in simple servant’s clothes and a mask, head bowed low. She whispers something in Hawke’s ear, then retreats.

“Do excuse me, your grace,” Hawke says, getting to her feet. “A small matter that needs my attention.” 

She trails her fingers across Varric’s bare chest as she goes and the shudder that passes over him, the way is eyes follow her as she leaves are barely an act. 

“Serah Tethras,” the Duke says, “I believe we met at the Champion’s banquet. I was unaware that you and she were...involved.”

Varric shrugs. “You know how gossip is, your grace. We try to keep our private lives to ourselves, except in the most trusted of company.”

“A wise choice.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever hunted wyverns before,” Varric continues, shifting the topic away from his sham of a relationship. “Any advice?”

The Duke considers him for a moment. “Avoid the pointy bits,” he says, “unless you favor pain. They’re cousins to the mighty dragons, you know. Smaller, but just as deadly.”

Lovely, Varric thinks. Small, deadly, poisonous dragons. “Maybe I’ll include one in my next book.”

“Oh,” the Duke exclaims. “You simply must! Perhaps you will write a story about our little party. I’m sure it would find quite an audience in Orlais. I’m certain you will do it justice.”

“You’ve read my books?”

“I think you’ll find you have many admirers among my guests, Serah.” The Duke raises an eyebrow suggestively. 

Varric coughs. “The Champion is a jealous lady, I’m afraid.”

“That I am,” Hawke says as she returns, sliding her arms over Varric’s shoulders and catching his earlobe between her teeth. Varric tries his damndest to act as though this is nothing out of the ordinary, as though the brush of her tongue against the soft skin is as natural to him as breathing. “Thankfully, Varric only has eyes for me, isn’t that right, darling?”

“Naturally, dearest.”

“Your devotion is inspiring,” the Duke says, his smile tight. “Do enjoy the evening, Champion. We shall see you at dawn for the hunt.”

Varric survives the rest of the evening, but only barely. Hawke clings to him as if her life depends on it and, before the night is through, he can’t imagine anyone in the room doubts that the Champion of Kirkwall is well and truly smitten. He can’t breathe properly until they’re back in their suite, Hawke in the bathroom changing. They’ve been close before-it isn’t like they’ve never touched-but this is something else. 

Hawke emerges from the bathroom, a flimsy, billowing nightgown flouncing just above her knees, shoulders bare, hair undone and tumbling down her back. Its long, he realizes, so long when it’s out of its bun. He licks his lips and burrows deeper under the covers. 

“So far so good,” she says softly, pinching out the lamp and crawling under the sheets. Varric can see the shape of her in the darkness, can smell lilacs on her hair, her skin. His hands itch to reach out for her, to hold her like they did in the Deep Roads so many years ago. 

He keeps them firmly by his sides.

“No trouble from the Duke?” he asks.

“Not a lick.” She rolls onto her back. “Thank you, Varric.”

He crosses his hands atop his chest. “The Duke mentioned something about poison,” he says.

“Yes,” Hawke sighs. “Tallis is gathering as much information from the other servants as she can. I think she’s got a lead on an antidote for the poison and a few tips for tracking.”

“Well, and it’s not like we have to actually win the damn thing.”

Hawke turns her face toward him in the darkness, props herself up on her elbow. “We’re going to win, Varric.”

“What? Why?”

She flops back down onto her pillow. “For Ferelden.”

A few minutes later, she’s asleep. Varric lies awake long after, then slips into an anxious, half sleep, thinking of spiked tails and fangs dripping poison the color of the Duke’s piercing eyes.

___

Dawn comes early and Varric finds himself frowning, arms crossed as he stands in the dewy grass. Hawke and Tallis argue over where to start tracking and Bethany scrounges for herbs to mix the antidote Tallis has learned of, just in case. Varric silently counts the things he would rather be doing than this. He’s up to number thirty two-organizing his sock drawer-before they get moving. 

Hours later, they have indeed returned triumphant having saved a pair of dogs, discovered an ancient Avvar treasure, and spared a haughty Orlesian asshole, in addition to killing the biggest wyvern Varric’s ever seen. Admittedly, it’s the only wyvern Varric has ever seen, but Maker, it’s huge. They’re all a bit worse for wear, covered in gore and grime and, in Hawke’s case, a few rather nastier things than that. 

There’s to be a party later, the Duke announces, a celebration of Hawke’s magnificent kill, but there’s plenty of time to clean up first. Varric is hungry, so ravenous he can feel a headache coming on, and maybe a bit thirsty too. His mouth his dry, head fuzzy as he and Hawke make their way to their suite, arm in arm. 

The tall, claw-footed tub in the bathroom is already full of steaming water when they arrive- _now that’s service,Varric_. 

“You go first,” he says. He’s exhausted, needs to lay down, just for a few minutes. Besides, he’s not the one covered in wyvern shit. 

Hawke frowns at him, but nods. She leaves the bathroom door open a crack, though. Varric strips down to his smalls, the only part of his outfit not covered in wyvern, and stretches across the bed. 

He must be more tired than he thought, he thinks, because it feels like he’s sinking into the mattress as he lays down, plunging deeper and deeper into the softness as the world spins around him. He blinks, eyes so heavy, body falling, spiraling downward. 

There’s a pinching sensation, now that he thinks about it, just below his left collar bone, like something clamping around the muscle there. Tighter, tighter until he’s sure the flesh will rend from the pressure. 

He groans, tries to open his eyes to see what’s the matter, but he can manage, not quite, and he slips slowly into sleep.   
___

_Varric_

A voice calling out in the blackness. Bartrand, he wonders. 

_Varric_

Stronger this time, closer. A woman’s voice. His mother? Bianca?

_VARRIC_

Loud, clear insistent. His name, over and over and-

“Varric!”

Hawke, he realizes. His eyes open.   
___

He sits up on the bed, far too quickly, and his head spins. His stomach turns and he staggers to his feet, racing into the bathroom so he can heave the meager contents of his empty stomach into the chamber pot. He lurches again, and again until finally, sweaty and cold, he slumps against the cool tide floor. 

Something cool brushes across his forehead. He opens his eyes. 

“Varric,” Hawke murmurs, wiping his brow again with a damp cloth. “You gave me quite a fright.” 

“What happened,” he asks, breathing slowly, deeply to fight off another wave of nausea. 

She points to his chest, to a large patch of purplish brown goo that covers his skin. He flexes the muscle there and grunts in pain. “You must have gotten some venom on you in the fight.”

Her breathing is shaky, chest heaving. Varric notices, suddenly, alarmingly, that’s she’s wearing nothing but a towel, clutched precariously under her armpits. 

“I was in the bath when I heard you groaning. I thought it was odd that you let me go first,” she says. “It’s lucky we had a bit of salve left.”

There’s something in her eyes, something terrified and soft that draws him in. He licks his lips and-

Promptly turns to heave into the basin again. 

He groans. 

“Perhaps it’s best if you skip the celebration,” Hawke says, helping him to his feet. “Get some sleep instead?”

Varric shakes his head. It’s already clearing, he can feel it. The chest, that’s going to hurt like hell for a few days, he can tell, but a few hours sleep will clear most of the venom from his body, he thinks. 

“Just let me sleep a while,” he says. “I’ll be alright.”

Hawke looks skeptical. “At least let me get Bethany to come take a look at you.”

Varric means to protest, but he’s already slipping beneath the covers, sleep pulling at him. It claims him before he can tell her not to bother.   
___

The room is bathed in the last, orange rays of light before the sun slips beneath the horizon when Varric wakes. His head is stuffy, still, body stiff, but when he sits up, he stomach remains calm and the room stays upright. 

Soft voices filter in from the hallway outside. 

“We should go now,” Tallis says. “We can’t afford to wait.”

“It’s a jewel,” Hawke replies. “Unless Prosper is selling it, it’ll still be there at dinner time, won’t it?”

“I-“ Tallis pauses. “I suppose it will.”

“If all this goes to shit, I’m not leaving Varric here alone. We go with him or not at all.”

A long pause. Varric almost thinks the elf has gone when she says “During dinner, then. But not a moment longer. Every minute we stay here is a risk.”

“At dinner.”

The door opens and Hawke slides into the room. She leans heavily against the door and sighs. 

“Everything alright?” Varric asks. 

“You’re awake!” She crosses to the bed. “We have the key to the Duke’s private wing. Tallis thinks that’s where the vault is. We’ll go during dinner, so long as you’re feeling up to it.”

Varric nods. “It went smoothly?”

“More or less. It seems I’ve developed a reputation for...strange preferences.” She sighs. “Apparently half the party heard you dying up here and thought we were…” She raises her eyebrows. 

Varric laughs. “How?”

“Well, you were moaning, I was shouting your name. I can’t say I blame them, really, especially not after that little show we put on last night. But still, to have the Duke’s son comment on it. I don’t know who turned redder, me or Bethany.” 

“Well,” Varric says. “At least you can say you made a splash at an Orlesian social event.” 

“Mother would be mortified.”

Leandra always liked him, Varric thinks, but yes, he can’t imagine her being terribly pleased at Dulci de Launcet hearing her daughter having her way with him.

It’s quite a thought, now that he’s had it, Hawke doing what she pleased to him, with him. It’ll never happen, he’s quite sure of that, but if it did, Maker. He’s not sure he’d survive. 

“I guess this means our relationship is nearing its end, then,” he says. 

Hawke nods sadly. “We had a good run, Varric. It’s not you, it’s me. I need space. I couldn’t possibly let anyone tie me down, not really. We both know it’s true.”

“You’ll always be the one that got away,” he says with a sigh. “Live well, Hawke.”

“We can still be friends, can’t we?”

“Always.”  
___

It all winds up, in the end, like Varric thought it would. There is, he concedes, more wyvern goo than he’d expected, but he can’t win them all. _The duke has fallen from grace_ is a gem. If he ever does write Hawke’s story, that’ll be a centerpiece, that’s for damn sure. 

Their breakup, as it were, turns out to be a long, lingering thing, stretching over the journey back to Kirkwall. The nights are cold as they trek back to Cumberland, the ship cabin small, and there’s less modesty between them, now. There’s no need for false intimacy either, with the Duke out of the picture, but it suddenly feels unnecessary to insist on separate beds or upon being fully dressed at all times. Oh, he keeps his pants on, she her breastband and smalls, but a bit of skin here and there as they change or sleep seems a small thing. 

If there’s anything that convinces him that whatever may have seemed to be growing between them in the past months- _years?_ -hasn’t been leading anywhere, it’s this. And it’s fine with him. Really, it is. He has Bianca, after all, even if he can’t quite remember the last time he’s seen her. They write and he thinks of her and that can be enough for him. And Hawke, Hawke has always been fine on her own, hasn’t sought out companionship beyond the friendly sort in all the years he’s known her. 

She is, truly, his dearest friend. His muse, when he allows himself to write about her. If that’s all this will ever be, it’s enough for him. 

If, when he finally returns to his suite, it seems emptier for her absence, if his bed seems larger and lonelier than before, he doesn’t notice.


	4. Interlude

Hawke’s hands shake as she walks away from the Gallows. 

They shake as she crosses the heavy drawbridge, drawn taut by the great iron chains that lend the city its name.

They shake as she picks her way along the shore, up the rocky cliffs that form the coastline. 

They shake when, finally, she stops, turns and looks back at the city that has been her home for the past seven years. They shake as it burns. As she sinks to the ground, legs curling beneath her. 

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder. She doesn’t need to look up to know it belongs to Varric. Everyone else has gone, at least for now, though she’s not sure when. It doesn’t matter.

“Hawke,” he says softly, and she crumples, arms around his waist, clutching at him. He cups her head in his hands, sinks down next to her on the rocks. 

She’s shaking, still, blood pounding, rushing in her ears. She takes his hands in hers. They’re shaking, too. The rush of battle, shock of Anders’ betrayal, horror of the city their city in rubble and flames, elation that they aren’t dead, all of it rattling around in their veins without an outlet. 

She grasps Varric’s face between her hands, pushes her trembling fingers into the hair at his temples, rests her forehead against his. She touches him and the shaking stops. The rest of the world goes still.

It is enough.

“What do we do now?” she whispers. 

“We go back,” he says. “We go back, we help, and then we leave.”

Hawke nods.

 

____________________

They leave the city together, all of them save Anders, in the dead of night a week after the Chantry burns.

Already, the Circles are rising up. Already, the blame has fallen on Hawke. 

Aveline leaves them first, scarcely past the city gates. Hawke doesn’t blame her. Her life is here, her job, her guards. She’s come to see them off, but Kirkwall needs her here. 

Isabela and Fenris not long after, just as they reach the Wounded Coast, where her ship is moored. 

Merrill is next, weeks later, when they stumble upon a band of refugee elves in need of a healer. 

Bethany remains as long as she can before a Warden messenger tracks them down, calling her back to her order. 

And so, finally, it is just the two of them, Hawke and Varric together as always. Hawke knows he must leave too, eventually. She dreads the day. 

Eventually, it arrives. They’re rather conspicuous, a dark haired, bright eyed human and a dwarf with a silver tongue. They’re recognized, once, twice, thrice. An endless road of hiding and running stretches before them and Hawke knows they can’t do it forever. 

She wakes one morning to find Varric packing his things. 

“You can hide better if I’m not here,” he says, though he doesn’t need to. “It’ll be safer.”

“I don’t want to hide,” she says. 

“I know.”

She sees him to the door of the abandoned farmhouse they’ve been staying in, thrusts a packet of wrapped cheeses and dried meats and bread into his hands. He stands in the doorway, pushes up on his toes and kisses her forehead. 

“Varric,” she says just after he’s turned his back to leave. He stops, looks back at her. “Write the book. Explain how it all happened.”

Varric nods. “I’ll send you the first copy.”

“Safe travels.”


	5. The End

_M-_

_Please find enclosed a copy of The Tale of the Champion (signed by the author). My editor assures me it’s “inspired”, “riveting”, and “ripped from the headlines”. You’ll be pleased to know there’s 100% less gravy than before._

_-Your Illustrious Biographer_

_P.S. We did destroy that idol, right? Shit’s getting weird here._

______________________

_Dear Biographer-_

_I don’t think you’ve manage to get my hair quite right, but I must thank you for the added sarcasm. Truly, it’s a masterpiece._

_Weird shit? In Kirkwall? I’m shocked._

_If you think it’s to do with the red lyrium, perhaps it’s worth investigating. I suspect asking Orzammar for information might be reaching a bit. The Wardens, maybe? I’ll try to get in touch with Bethany._

_Stay safe._

______________________

_V-_

_I hope this reaches you. Post has been unreliable of late. I don’t know if you’ve tried to get in touch since my last letter._

_~~I hope you’re~~_

_~~If anything’s happened to you, I don’t think~~_

_If you’re dead, I’m going to be very angry with you._

_Bethany’s arranging to put me in contact with someone who may be able to help us. More information to follow soon. I’ll be on the move until then._

_-H_

______________________

_Varric-_

_No leads yet, but I’ve made contact with our Warden friend._

_I’m settled at this address, now. Please, get in touch if you can._

_I miss you._

_-H  
_____________________

_Marian-_

_I’m not dead._

_Keep your head down-people are asking about you all over town. I’ll try to keep them off your trail._

_-V  
_____________________

_Something’s happened. Besides the giant hole in the sky, I mean. I’m fine, but I need your help to fix this._

_I’m with the Inquisition in the Frostbacks, north of Haven. Come as quickly as you can._

_You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important._

_-Varric_

_P.S. I miss you, too._

____________________

Varric thinks the moment he opens his door at Skyhold to find Hawke standing on the other side is the greatest one of his life. In the months to come, he’ll think of it as one of the worst. It’s neither, really, nothing more than another opportunity that he lets slip by.

Best or worst, in the moment itself, he’s just happy to see her, to pull her into a fierce hug. 

Later, as he stands on the battlements of Adamant Fortress, watching the fade rift close with Hawke on the other side, he’ll wish he’d never asked her to come.


	6. The Beginning

_Where’s Hawke?_

From the tone, Hawke can tell that the words are soft, gentle, disbelieving, but they echo around her, booming in the cavernous void of the Fade. 

She turns to face the Nightmare, daggers raised. 

“I mattered,” she says softly. “I never thought I could fix the world, but I mattered.”

_Where’s Hawke_ the Nightmare roars, Varric’s voice seeping from its body like oil. 

Her blood is ice. This new fear the demon has latched onto is powerful indeed. 

“Perhaps you did, Hawke,” it says. “Perhaps you mattered to him. A friend, a muse, a weapon. Never a lover. You never mattered enough for that.”

_Where’s Hawke?_

“I’ve had enough of you, demon.”

She strikes.  
___

The Nightmare lies shrunken and unmoving on the strange stone of the Fade. Hawke watches it for a time-hours, days, years, she can’t tell. She’s been battling it for the blink of an eye, the beat of a heart, for centuries, eons. 

Finally, it’s over. 

She turns away from it, scanning the horizon. The endless, green horizon of a world that isn’t her own.

Oh.

Oh, no.

She’s stuck. 

She’s not a mage. This world won’t move for her, won’t change as she prods it. Won’t release her. And so she walks, aimless, pathless, purposeless. She hasn’t gone far when she feels a presence at her back. 

“Champion.”

Hawke turns. 

“Solas?” The elf inclines his head. “You look...different.”

He pulls his fur mantle tighter around his chest. “Many months have passed. Things have changed on the other side of the Veil.”

“Why are you here? How?”

“A dream. I came to see what had become of the Champion of Kirkwall, and here you are.”

“I’d rather be out there, if it’s all the same. Can you help me?”

Solas sighs. “The breach is closed and you are,” his lip curls ever so slightly, “sadly without magic.”

“Solas,” Hawke says, taking a step back towards him. “I need to get out of here. You know things. You must be able to help me. I need to get back.”

“To what?”

There’s only one answer, Hawke realizes. There seems little point in pretending otherwise. “To Varric.”

His’ eyebrows rise. “You must go to Kirkwall, then.”

“How do I get there?” 

Solas grips her shoulders. His gauntlets pinch at her skin as he turns her. 

“There, off in the distance. Do you see?”

Hawke squints. There, at the horizon, farther than she should rightly be able to see, a patch of shimmering light, as though the world ripples there. She nods. 

“It is a thinning of the Veil. You will find Kirkwall there. Perhaps the Veil will be thin enough that you may push though.”

“Thank-”

The elf is gone. Hawke stands as alone as before. 

She begins to walk.   
___

As she gets nearer to that shimmering ripple, the Fade changes. There is less rock, less of that horrible green sky. More of the real world, her world. Trees and people and buildings dot the eerie landscape until finally, she can scarcely believe that she isn’t standing on the cliffs of the Wounded Coast. Perhaps a part of her is.

She’s been here before, in this very spot. The memory shimmers to life around her. She and Varric sit, sprawled on the rock. She turns and the city behind her burns. As she reaches a hand out, the memory flickers. Her dream-self pulls Varric to her, kisses his mouth instead of his forehead, holds him close. If only she had, she thinks.

She walks on and the memory fades. 

The city is just as she remembers, teeming with half-remembered moments, her friends, her family around every corner. Varric shines brighter than the rest, though they all turn to dust when she reaches out for them. 

She climbs the city’s stairs, higher and higher. The docks to Darktown to Lowtown. As she climbs, the world around her becomes denser, more solid. She can feel people brushing past her. By the time she reaches the Hightown market square, she can see them, shadowy and dark, flitting about from stall to stall. The Veil is thinner here. 

When she stands in the Chantry square, she almost thinks she can see glimpses of the true world beyond. For surely it can’t look the ways it seems. The Chantry she sees is just as she remembers, tall and proud. Even if they’ve rebuilt it, it can’t be so close as this. 

If she can cross over, if the Veil is to be thinnest anywhere, perhaps it will be here. 

She stands in the nave for what seems like hours, glimmers of a lone, sweet voice singing the Chant drifting through. A memory, an echo, a leak between that world and the Fade? She isn’t sure. She closes her eyes, pushes against the song in her mind, tethers herself to it and wills it to carry her back where she belongs. 

When she opens her eyes again, she remains. 

A bright light shines in the corner of her eye and she turns to it. Her breath catches. 

_Varric_.

He’s not here, not in the Fade, but he’s real. She watches him light a candle-the flame flares bright, even here-and follows him back towards the door. 

No, she thinks, no, he can’t leave. 

“Varric!”

He stops, turns. 

Hawke reaches out for him, expects her hand to go right through, just as it has everyone else she’s passed. Instead, she finds solid flesh beneath her fingers. 

She grips him tighter, circles her arms around his shoulders, pulls her body flush to his. Solid, it’s solid, she’s solid and so is he and-

“Hawke?”

He can see her.

He can see her.

“Yes, Varric, it’s me. It’s me.” She pulls back from him. “I’m here, I’m real.”  
___

Varric’s seen some weird shit in his life. Some truly _weird_ shit. None of it, nothing compares to this. 

It’s become a nightly ritual, lighting a candle here in the Chantry, since he’s come back to Kirkwall. He’s not really sure why he does it, who he lights it for, but he does. Every night, a lone candle amongst the rubble. 

He almost didn’t come tonight, but something drew him here, up from lowtown, through the market. Something drew him, and he followed.

The hand on his shoulder is a shock. The arms that come after it, even more so, until they wrap around him and he knows that feeling, that smell. 

_Hawke_

“I’m real,” she says, to herself as much as him. 

He kisses her. 

He kisses her and it’s like coming home.


End file.
